1: Bad day, señorita?

I should have run.

The moment I felt his eyes on me; I should have turned and disappeared into the rain.

But I didn’t. I stood there, rooted in place, and let the fire inside his gaze find me.

It was the beginning of a beautiful nightmare—one I would never escape.

If I could rewrite my story, I would have never met Santiago Morales.

Because the fire in him was never meant to keep me warm.

It was meant to consume me.

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The rain began halfway through the phone call, a slow drizzle that thickened into a heavy curtain. I stood motionless in the middle of the square, my phone pressed to my ear, listening to my aunt’s voice carve away the last thread I had to my family.

"You don’t have to come to the funeral," my aunt’s voice had said, flat and emotionless. "It’s not like he left you anything. I think it will be… better this way."

Better this way. The words rang in my ears as my throat closed up.

My father was dead. And I wasn’t even worth a chair at the family table, not even in death.

My relationship with my father was strained, and it had been ever since my mother had left us.

Left me. Her daughter. Only six years old.

I was devastated. Cried every night for months. Until one night, I just stopped. Fresh out of tears.

Instead, I lay in bed, staring into the dark void, matching the emptiness inside me.

It was somehow comforting. Like I felt a little less ... alone.

It took time but I recovered. Slowly. I found things I enjoyed. Like dancing. And one day, I even smiled again.

My father, on the other hand, never recovered. Grief and emptiness swallowed him whole, and instead of fighting it, he tried to numb the pain.

He began drinking - first a little with dinner, then more and more, until his moods became unpredictable.

His voice, once full of laughter and encouragement, turned sharp and hurtful.

The warm arms that used to wrap me in a loving embrace suddenly terrified me.

His gentle eyes darkened, evident of the anger living inside him.

Small words turned to screams.

Small pushes to slaps.

The house that used to be my home became a place I dreaded.

One day, at the age of sixteen, I decided I've had enough. I could no longer stay. The fear, the loneliness, the pain - it was all too much.

I didn't own much, and what little I had didn't bring happy memories.

So I only gathered what was necessary to survive. And when my father had passed out on the couch, I disappeared into the night, looking for somewhere I could finally breathe without fear.

I left him behind. And he never forgave me for it.

He had not always been this cold, abusive man. Before my mother left, he had been a loving father.

Never laid a hand on me. Always kissing me good morning and goodnight. Carried me on his broad, protective shoulders, and I stretched my tiny hands in the air - reaching for the stars.

He taught me to ride a bike, and to swim.

Every Sunday morning, while my mother made pancakes, the three of us danced around the kitchen.

I felt loved, cherished, and important.

But the house that was once filled with laughter, love and the sweet scent of pancakes dissolved and turned to ashes the moment my mother walked away. Like she had lit a match and set our home ablaze.

Our family.

My childhood.

My life.

The happy memories of my father drove me back home when I was around twenty.

Standing at the doorstep, I felt sadness and despair - but also a faint spark of joy, remembering all the love that once lived here.

Knocking on the door, anxiety came crushing down, a knot tightening in my chest. I wasn't sure what I was doing here, after all the pain he had caused me. Yet, I felt... responsible.

He was my father, after all. And all I had left.

When he opened the door, he had looked startled, confused, almost shocked to see me again.

Understandable, I had been gone for four years.

He didn't look happy to see me, as I had naively hoped, but he stepped aside, allowing me in.

Since then, I visited him regularly: cooking him meals, cleaning his house, keeping him company.

He never expressed gratitude for my help, or my return, but I at least expected him to be thankful in some way. So, when my aunt informed me that he deliberately had written me out of the will, it hit me like a slap on the face.

His last gift to me.

So he didn't leave me completely empty-handed.

Thanks, Dad.

The line had been quiet for a moment, but then she pulled me back to reality, adding, almost as an afterthought, "I’m sorry."

But she wasn’t.

And we both knew it.

When the line went dead, the world felt quieter, except for the rain. It had soaked through my white flower-print dress, the fabric clinging to my skin like a second, chillier layer. Cold rivulets traced paths down my spine, and my blond hair hung heavy against my cheeks. I could taste salt, though I wasn’t sure if it was rainwater or tears.

That’s when I felt it — before I even saw him.

Amidst the pain, there was something else. A tingling in the air.

Something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

The weight of a gaze.

He stood a few paces away, tall and unnervingly still, rain dripping from the edges of his dark hair.

His eyes locked on mine like a predator. Through all the chaos in the square, his focus was entirely on me.

As if he had claimed me.

He moved toward me with deliberate slowness, each step like a promise.

Closing the distance between us.

The crowd blurred into nothing — umbrellas, rushing feet, voices — all fading into irrelevance.

When he stopped in front of me, the air seemed to tighten.

He didn’t smile. Instead, his hand rose, fingertips grazing my jaw before sliding a wet strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch was gentle, yet possessive.

Like I was already his.

"Bad day, señorita?" His voice was low and warm, a sound you could replay in your head over and over again. The Spanish accent was the cherry on top. Wrapping his words in velvet, concealing the danger beneath.

His sweet breath brushed against my skin, tempting me to lean closer.

His eyes, hazel brown, flecked with gold, captivating me.

I couldn't look away.

His gaze pulled me in, dark and deep enough to drown in.

For a moment I thought the world might tilt.

Gosh, he was handsome.

My knees felt weak.

A faint smile curved my lips as I almost whispered,

"Not anymore."